Christmas Shopaholic(10)

Minnie and I put some dried beans in an empty jar, and I thought we’d done really well—but this is on a whole other level.

“Such a fun activity,” Petra is gushing to Miss Lucas. “The whole family got involved!”

“I’m so glad!” Miss Lucas looks delighted. “Creativity is so important. Minnie, did you make a musical instrument?”

“We made a shaker,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“Marvelous!” enthuses Miss Lucas. “Can I see it?”

Oh God.

Reluctantly, I reach into Minnie’s book bag and pull out the shaker. I was going to paint it or something, but I forgot, so it’s basically a Clarins jar. I can see Petra’s eyes widen, and Miss Lucas seems momentarily stumped, but I keep my chin high. She asked for “items around the home,” didn’t she?

“Super!” says Miss Lucas at last. “We’ll put it next to Eva’s drum in the display!”

Great. So Eva has a tribal drum and Minnie has a Clarins jar.

Thankfully, Minnie doesn’t seem to mind—but I’m feeling hot all over. Next time I’ll ace the craft project, I promise myself. I’ll make something drop-dead amazing, even if it takes me all weekend.

“Bye, Minnie, darling.” I kiss her and she runs happily into the classroom.

“Tarkie, careful!” Suze’s piercing voice makes us all turn, and I gasp. What the hell has Suze got there? It’s a complicated arrangement of tubing and funnels and duct tape, and it’s taking both her and her husband, Tarquin, to carry it, while the children trail behind.

“Lady Cleath-Stuart!” exclaims Miss Lucas. “Goodness!”

“It’s a euphonium,” says Suze breathlessly. “It plays three notes.”

Suze loves art and craft, and she’s always been brilliant at them. She’s forever getting her children to make papier-maché figures and pasta collages and leave them drying all over the kitchen. So I’m not surprised she can knock up a quick euphonium from household items.

“Suze!” I say. “That’s amazing!”

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” says Suze modestly. “Shall we carry it in? Tarkie, be careful round the corner….”

“Shit.” A low voice behind me distracts my attention. “Shit, shit.”

I swivel away from watching Suze manhandle her homemade euphonium to see a mum called Steph Richards peering in dismay out the window at the road below. “Bloody traffic warden’s coming,” she says. “There wasn’t anywhere to park; I had to go on a crosswalk. Harvey, darling, let’s quickly get you into class.”

Her voice is strained, and her face is lined with worry. I don’t know Steph very well, but I do know that she had Harvey on her fortieth birthday (she told us once at a parents’ event). She has some monster job in human resources, is the major breadwinner of the family, and always has a crease in her brow. She has a Yorkshire accent and once told me she grew up in Leeds but moved down for uni and never went back.

“Don’t worry,” I say impulsively. “I’ll go and divert the traffic warden. Take your time with Harvey.”

I dash out of the school and sprint along the street, which is always crowded with cars at drop-off time. I can see the traffic warden making his way along the road. And there’s Steph’s car, illegally parked.

She won’t get a ticket, I vow. I won’t let it happen.

“Hello! Officer!” Panting hard, I reach him when he’s still three cars away from Steph’s. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Yes?” The traffic warden gives me a discouraging look, which I ignore.

“I wanted to ask you about the rules for parking on Cedar Road,” I say brightly. “If there’s a double yellow line and there’s a sign saying ‘no stopping between six and nine’ but there’s a white zigzag as well…what are the rules for motorbikes?”

“Huh?” The traffic warden peers at me.

“Also, what does ‘loading’ actually mean?” I add, blinking innocently. “Suppose I’m moving house and I’ve got six sofas to transport and some really big potted plants—I mean, they’re more like trees—what do I do?”

“Ah,” says the traffic warden. “Well, if you’re moving house, you may need a permit.”

I can see Steph hastening along the street, clicking in her businessy heels. She passes me, but I don’t flicker.

“A permit,” I echo, as though fascinated by every word he’s saying. “I see. A permit. And where would I apply for that?”

She’s reached her car. She’s bleeping it open. She’s safe.

“Or, actually, you know what?” I say, before the traffic warden can reply. “Maybe I’ll just look online.” I beam at him. “Thank you so much.”

I watch as Steph pulls out of the dodgy parking space, drives along a few meters, then draws up alongside me on a newly vacated spot, her engine running.

“Thanks,” she says out of her window, with a wry grin. She’s really thin, Steph, with dark hair and the kind of translucent skin that gives away when you’re exhausted. Which I’m guessing she is, from the shadows beneath her eyes. Also, her foundation needs blending at the jawline, but I don’t like to say so.